


Pressure Cooker

by Keysmasher



Series: LB [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Rough Sex, Workplace Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25225414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keysmasher/pseuds/Keysmasher
Summary: Even for staff, psychiatric hospitals are pressure cookers. Lily and Brad need to let off a little steam.
Series: LB [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1827511
Kudos: 3





	Pressure Cooker

**Author's Note:**

> A bit different from the last one! These are unconnected one-shots featuring the same characters in different scenarios. If you think of a scenario you'd like to see, drop me a line!
> 
> The first half of this is the setup. The second half is the actual sex. The "graphic depictions of violence" in the warnings are not sexual in nature.

I scowled as my hair fell around my face yet again. I normally held it in its bun with three hair ties, but today I only had the one, and it was refusing to cooperate.

 _Useless,_ I thought grumpily, pulling the hair tie out of my hair. I managed to get a smear of dry-erase marker on my cheek in the process.

I heard a door open. I spun around - the kids shouldn’t be back from school yet! It was only 2:00!

It wasn’t the kids. It was my ex-supervisor Brad, whom we quietly referred to as String Bean. Today he was wearing khakis and a hot pink polo with the company logo on the breast. “Got your schedule up yet?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “Working on it,” I said.

His eyes caught my cheek. “Drawin’ on yourself?” he drawled.

I sighed. “My hair tie,” I said, an explanation that wasn’t an explanation at all.

“I was wonderin’ why your hair was down.”

“Because I only have the one, instead of all three!”

“And you can’t braid it?”

I frowned at him. “I can’t braid my own hair to save my life.”

“Useless. Turn around, I’ll get it while you work on the schedule.”

“Where’d you learn to braid?”

“I have daughters, Lily.”

I turned around and started writing the schedule. He came up behind me, combed his fingers through my thick, golden-brown hair, and started separating it into sections.

I almost stopped writing. Nobody had played with my hair since I was a little girl and my mother had taught me how to brush it myself.

“You okay?” Brad asked, hands stopping their motion. He’d obviously noticed the sudden tension.

“Been a while since someone else did my hair,” I said. “Sorry.”

I had barely finished writing the date at the top of the whiteboard when Brad started braiding. It was an odd sensation, but not unpleasant. He worked quickly, and was done by the time I wrote “9:00 - Good night!” at the bottom of the board.

“Got the tie?” he asked me, and I passed it to him. He tied it off and then took a few steps back.

“Thanks,” I said, reaching up to pat the top of my head.

“You’re welcome,” he said. “Now you just need to wash that marker off.”

“I’ll do room sweeps first,” I said.

He nodded. “Need towels or anything? A mop?”

I shook my head - the hygiene closet was the first thing I checked when I walked in the door. “Think I’m good, thanks.”

“Lemme know,” he said, and left.

I started with the bedroom furthest from my desk. I worked in residential psych, and part of my job was to make sure the clients didn’t have anything sharp, heavy but throwable, tie-around-their-necks-able, or otherwise dangerous. Today I wasn’t going too in-depth - I moved things around on the first day of my shift and if I had a reason to, but today was my third day in a row in here and nobody had given me a reason to think they had contraband, so I just looked at what was in plain sight. I found pens in one of the rooms (those hurt when you get stabbed with them), a DVD in another (which could be broken to form a sharp), and food trash in three. I left the food trash where it was and made a note to make sure the clients threw it away when they returned from school.

The day flew by. I only had to physically break up two fights, and kept any more from breaking out through sheer force of will and judicious use of the Disappointed Mom face. In one of the fights a client grabbed my hair and pulled, and it was surprisingly easy to slide the braid out of his hand. Much easier than disentangling a bun from his fingers.

Brad wandered in half an hour from the end of my shift. “Good night?” he asked. “Anything I need to call home about?”

He wasn’t talking about his own home, but the kids’. When something serious happened, both the legal guardian and the social worker had to be notified within 24 hours. The supervisors made a lot of calls after 9, when the building finally settled down.

“Couple fights.”

“Make contact with each other?” He sounded hopeful.

“Yeah,” I said, and his face fell. More paperwork for him.

“Type it up and send it to me.”

I nodded. I was already halfway through doing exactly that.

“Thanks again for the braid,” I said. “It’s a lot less grabbable.”

“Thought it might be,” he said. “I’mma go check on everyone else. Have a good rest of your night.”

“You too.”

He gave me a look that clearly said he wouldn’t and walked out.

The next day, Wednesday, was my final shift of the week. Before I left my apartment I looked up French braiding again, and when I tried to follow along with the video I found, I succeeded only in creating a tangled mess. It took me almost half an hour to sort it out and put it up in its bun.

I actually had a partner that evening. Ryan didn’t know the kids very well, so when Liam started screaming and threatening people I told him to take the other seven clients out. Gym, playground, football field - I didn’t care where, but Liam was the most dangerous kid in the unit and I needed the other kids out before he started targeting them.

Of course, when everyone else was gone, I was alone with him. I preferred it that way, sometimes - a lot of staff, particularly newer staff, had a tendency to try to help and only end up making things worse. I’d been working with Liam for seven months now, and knew him well enough to know what usually worked to de-escalate the situation.

Unfortunately, “usually” isn’t “always”, and I found myself dodging and backing away from him within ten minutes. Liam picked up a chair and threw it - impressive, since it was heavy wood instead of light plastic. It was also terrifying, because those were armchairs that weighed a good twenty pounds apiece and he’d just chucked it ten feet towards me.

I felt myself clicking over into crisis mode. As humans, our instinctive response to a threat falls into one of three categories: fight, flight, or freeze. Over time, it’s possible to train yourself to move past that instinctive reaction to allow yourself to not just react, but to think. It’s an odd way of thinking, one where your whole brain is dedicated to your immediate surroundings. There’s no room to spare for keeping track of time, or even for feeling emotions; it’s a cold, analytical state of mind, with instinct, intellect, and trained reflex coming together to try to find the best path forward.

Of course, as soon as it ends, the adrenaline crash hits, and I usually spend about twenty minutes hyperventilating before being able to think again and talk myself down. But while it lasts it’s a nice relief from my usual overthinking.

The next few hours were a blur. Somewhere along the line my arm got scratched deeply. Liam got my hair and almost pulled it out of my head. My bun came undone when I gained a release. Brad showed up right around the time Liam twisted his fingers in the shoulder of my shirt and tried to punch me with the other hand.

Brad blocked the punch. “Can you get a release?” he asked.

I tried and failed. Liam tried to punch me again. I turtled out of my shirt, leaving him holding the fabric while I jogged backwards, topless but for a hot pink sports bra. My hair twisted around my face. A quick glance down showed bruises already blossoming on my belly and chest where I’d been hit, and deep scratches that oozed blood where Liam’s nails had dug into my skin.

Liam screamed, ripped my shirt in half, and went after Brad. We were busy for a while before Brad finally went for a one-arm restraint. I called for a nurse to witness and restrained the other arm. Liam, Brad, and I were all bleeding - it was smeared on the wall and across all of our torsos. I hoped neither of them had anything bloodborne, because if I caught something from them I was gonna be _pissed._

Liam started sobbing. Brad and I cautiously ended the restraint. Liam turned to me and grabbed me up in a bear hug, bending down until he could bury his face in my shoulder. I sighed and patted his back as he sobbed.

“That’s the job, right there,” Brad said. I flipped him off with the hand that wasn’t patting Liam’s back.

The nurse behind me said, “Whose blood is on the wall?”

“Prolly all of ours,” Brad said. “Lily, we’re gonna need you to do a worker’s comp for exposure.”

“Later,” I said.

“I’m sorry,” Liam wailed into my shoulder.

I patted his back again. “Thank you for apologizing,” I said. “Can you tell me why you were mad?”

He wanted to call Mom, but he knew Mom worked until 5 and so he had to wait. For that reason, we’d spent - I checked my watch - three hours threatening and aggressing and being restrained. It was now 6:30.

Brad opened the door to the unit, looked inside, and said, “Where’s the rest of your boys?”

“Ryan took ‘em when this whole thing started,” I said. “I thought he woulda snuck back in by now. Liam, how ‘bout you shower and clean up that elbow, and then we can call Mom?”

Liam collected his clothes, soap, and towel without a word. Brad opened one of the bathrooms for him, and in he went.

Brad looked at me. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said, wiping the hair off my sweaty forehead with a hand that shook. “You?”

“I’m fine. You’re shaking.”

I shrugged. “Tired.”

“Do you have an extra shirt somewhere?”

I abruptly remembered I had nothing from the waist up except for my bra. “In my car,” I said. “I’ll go get it, lemme just….”

I grabbed a towel from the closet and wrapped it around myself. It wouldn’t do for a bunch of teenagers to see a half-naked woman wandering the halls. I collected my car keys.

“When did this all start?” Brad asked me.

I thought for a minute. “They were still coming back from school,” I said, “so maybe...3:15? 3:20? when he started the threats. Ryan took ‘em out maybe 3:30. Liam started hitting, I think 3:35?”

“And I came in the hallway at 5,” Brad said, and shook his head. “And it’s quarter to 7 now.”

“Christ,” I grumbled. “These kids.”

“These kids,” he agreed. “Go get your shirt. I’ll call Ryan back in.”

I heard him over the walkie as I headed out to my car. A few kids saw me walking through the hall, and one of them yelled, “Damn, Miss Lily, what happened to you?”

“I’ll kill ‘em,” her friend promised.

My eyes pricked with tears and I hurried out to the parking lot without answering them. The adrenaline crash was hitting. I ended up spending half an hour crying in the driver’s seat of my car before being able to wrestle my shirt on. The movement pulled against some of the scratches, reopening one of them.

I stopped by the nursing station and asked for BZK and bandaids. They gave me rubbing alcohol pads, gauze, triple bac, and tape. I patched myself up in the hallway bathroom.

By the time I returned to the unit, it was nearly 7:30. Liam was still in the bathtub. Three of the five kids watching TV had wet hair.

“Other three in the shower?” I asked Ryan and Brad.

Brad nodded. “Got yourself patched up?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“What a night,” he mumbled. “I’ll get the comp forms for you before you leave. Don’t let me forget.”

I made a face. “I won’t.”

“We’ve gotta debrief the restraint, too.”

“He was restrained?” Ryan asked, sounding horrified.

“I told you that,” Brad said, rolling his eyes. “We just checked on him ten minutes ago,” he added to me.

I nodded. We were required to check on them every fifteen minutes. Technically we were supposed to lay eyes on them, but unless we had a reason to watch them bathe, we just knocked on the door to make sure they answered.

“If I haven’t come back by ten, come find me,” Brad said, and left.

The night settled into its usual quiet chaos. I read a chapter of Hank the Cowdog to Liam, then sang a lullaby to Jack, then read a story Will and I had written together to Will. Only after bedtime songs and stories were done did I sit down to do my paperwork.

“What did you want me to do for sessions?” Ryan asked me.

I slowly turned my head away from my laptop to stare at him. “What sessions did you do today?”

“Uh….”

We were required to complete three therapeutic sessions per day. We could work on deficits in social, emotional regulation, independent living, or communication skills. As long as each session was twenty minutes long, we could structure them essentially however we wanted.

Ryan had apparently not given a single thought to sessions for the entire night. I managed to find three in the mess of programming he’d pulled together and wrote that Liam had refused them all. Then I began the arduous task of reconstructing the night in two different ways: one with names of peers and staff involved, for internal use, and one with everyone’s names redacted but for Liam’s, to be sent to Liam’s social worker.

Did he throw the chair before or after they ran? I couldn’t remember.

“Hey Ryan,” I said, “was Liam throwing chairs when you left?”

Ryan stared at me. “Like, the plastic chairs?”

The plastic chairs looked like they belonged in a preschool classroom. “No,” I said. “The wooden ones.”

“How do you throw a chair as big as you are?”

I shrugged. “Ask Liam.”

The rest of the time I’d spent with him was at least as much of a blur, but I didn’t have anyone else to ask. I made my best guess about the order of events and kept it vague.

I was almost done when the door opened and my overnight staff walked in. I looked at her, then at the clock. It was already 10:45.

“Oh, you musta had a shit day,” she said. “Lemme pee and you can tell me all about it.”

I finished the report and emailed it to Brad while she was in the bathroom. When she came out, I said, “Liam had a night because he couldn’t call Mom until 5. Brad and I had to restrain him after a coupla hours. My shirt got destroyed. He’s been fine the last four-ish hours. Anything else ask Ryan.”

“Go home,” she ordered, and practically shoved me out the door.

Brad was still trying to get through his own stack of paperwork when I found him. He scowled at me and shoved the three-page workers’ comp form over. I filled it in quickly. I didn’t even need to look up Liam’s 5-digit client ID.

Brad rolled his eyes. “You do this so fast,” he half-complained, scribbling his signature where he needed to.

I shrugged, wincing as the movement pulled at the scabs. “Don’t ask me for overtime this week,” I said. “I’m gonna need all three days.”

“Figured,” he said. “Go get that blood work tomorrow.”

I knew that already. I nodded.

***

Sunday afternoon saw Will in the hallway, screaming and threatening and beating his chest. When I still didn’t get rid of the seven-foot gorilla he swore was right in front of me, he turned his anger on me. I blocked almost all of his punches as I backed away from him, but he managed to kick my knee. I stumbled, but kept my feet.

In the second it took me to regain my balance, Liam grabbed the neck of my shirt with both hands and ripped it apart. It would have been impressive if it had been happening in a movie. In real life, it was annoying - I liked that shirt!

I dodged and danced back and forth down the hallway, until we were both panting and dripping sweat. Will was getting slower and clumsier.

I heard someone unlock the door behind me and enter the hallway. I glanced back to see who it was.

Will took advantage and seized my bra strap. I turned my attention back to him in time for him to yank, pulling me closer. I blocked his other hand as he tried to hit me again.

I suddenly felt Brad’s body heat on my back. He tried to gain a release for me and only succeeded in ripping the bra strap. He let go quickly, but Will, sensing weakness, yanked again. The strap tore in half and the cup folded down, revealing one of my breasts. I took a few hasty steps back and the fabric slithered free of his grip.

Brad could handle him for a minute, I decided, and retreated far enough for me to react if Will came after me again. I kept one eye on the two of them as I tied the ends together. It wasn’t pretty, but it should hold long enough for this particular crisis to end-

Fuck. I hadn’t replaced the shirt in my car after Liam had gotten me last week. It had been over a year since the last time my shirt had gotten ripped, and now it had happened twice in less than a week.

“Call nursing,” I heard Brad say, and I called over the radio without question. Brad was either getting ready to restrain Will or he’d talked him into taking a sedative. I was hoping for the sedative. Restraining Will wasn’t like restraining Liam; Liam calmed down fast when they happened, but Will fought even harder. We could hold him if we had to, but it was better if we didn’t have to.

A PRN, on the other hand, would sedate Will’s overactive brain. Depending on how much chlorpromazine they gave him, he might even sleep for a few hours. It was a quicker, longer-lasting calm than a restraint could provide.

Of course, PRNs didn’t kick in right away. Chlorpromazine took somewhere between 10 and 15 minutes to start, and another half hour to reach its peak. Will was already on a relatively high dose to manage his psychosis, so he had built up a certain tolerance to it. His psychiatrist had said she would try to wean him onto a different antipsychotic starting next month, and I was not looking forward to that change.

Will broke away from Brad and charged me. Things got busy again. Brad and I dodged, blocked, and distracted Will from each other until the nurse showed up. “Whatcha need?” she called.

“PRN,” Brad called back.

“Who’s the client?”

I twisted away from a fist aimed at my nose. “Will,” Brad said, and Will spun to go after Brad.

By the time the nurse returned, Will was panting and leaning against the wall between Brad and me. Brad and I were both sweating and breathing hard.

Whatever movies might tell you, fighting is hard. Lactic acid builds up in your muscles quicker than circulating blood can take it away, leading to pain. The repeated expansion and contraction of muscle groups burns through the available supply of calcium and potassium, leading to slower reaction times. Adrenalin makes your heart rate spike. Overuse of muscles leads to small tears, necessary for building muscle but sore in the short term. Bumps and bruises complain about being stretched and jostled.

Most fights don’t last 20 minutes, like they do in the movies. The fights that do last that long tend to involve lots of breaks while people catch their breaths, or someone so flooded with adrenalin they don’t feel their body’s signals to stop. That was what had happened with Will so far - he’d been so panicked by the monster he thought was real that he couldn’t process his body’s signals to stop. Now his body was refusing to be ignored any more, and he was catching his breath.

Believe it or not, that was a good sign. It meant that he was starting to come down from brainless panic. He was becoming capable of rational thought once more.

Nurse Michelle returned. He took the little red pills she offered him - it never failed to amuse me that chlorpromazine looked like Reese’s Pieces and had a sugar coating - and sat down against the wall.

Brad and I talked to him for about ten minutes - what happened? How are you feeling? Is there a better way to handle this in the future? - and then Brad took him back inside. I heard the boys yelling and demanding to know what had happened. I closed my eyes and slumped against the wall.

The door opened, and I straightened. Brad offered me a towel.

“Thanks,” I said, and wrapped it around myself. “I don’t have an extra shirt with me, though.”

“I have a couple in the office,” he said.

We made the short walk in silence. The office he was talking about wasn’t his office, but an office shared by whichever managers were running the building that day. Brad and Allie were the only two in today, and Allie was probably too busy running her units to even think about coming up here.

Brad opened a cabinet on the wall. One of the shelves held a jumble of clothing. “Blue or green?” he asked me.

“Surprise me.”

He grunted and started rifling through the mess. After a minute, he said, “Try this one,” and threw an emerald-green polo at me.

I turned my back on him, dropped the towel, and slid the shirt over my head. The silky material felt good against my overheated skin.

“Set?” he asked me.

I felt around the belly, making sure it wasn't too tight. “Set,” I said.  
****  
On Monday I had to come in early for a refresher on crisis management. Company policy required us to recertify every six months, and I was up.

Of course, I was running late. I slept through my first two alarms, then realized I’d forgotten my backpack when I reached my car, then was halfway down the driveway before I remembered I needed to put an extra shirt in the car. By the time I reached work, I was hungry, undercaffeinated, and grumpy.

“How ya doin’, dear?” Brad asked when I walked in.

I forced the scowl off my face. “I’m all right, how’re you?”

“Doin’ fine, doin’ fine.” He checked his watch. “You might get lucky today.”

“Why?”

“There are supposed to be ten of you here.”

I blinked at him, then at the otherwise-empty room.

“I swear, half my job is just rescheduling people who can’t be bothered to show up.”

I laughed. “Better than yesterday, though.”

“Man, you don’t like being punched? What’s wrong with you?”

“I mean, I work here.”

“Point,” he said, and smiled. I smiled back and took a seat. We ignored each other in favor of our phones.

“We’ll give ‘em five more minutes before I just reschedule everyone,” he said ten minutes later.

I finished the level of the game I was playing, then set my phone down and pulled my hair into a ponytail. One hair tie held it there while I twisted the loose hair into a bun. Another tie went around to secure it, and then another.

A sharp snap against my finger told me that the third tie had broken. I scowled and got up to throw it away. As I walked to the trash can, over by the door, I could feel tendrils of hair start to come loose.

“You weren’t joking when you said you needed three hair ties,” Brad said.

“Nope,” I said, scowling. “And I still can’t braid my own damn hair!”

Brad laughed at me. “Want me to do it?”

I sighed. “Please,” I said, and took down my hair.

Brad’s fingers combed through my hair, bringing a strange joy. I shut my eyes while he braided.

“There,” he said, his voice deep and soft. “Tie.”

I handed him the neon green hair tie on my wrist. He bound it off.

I expected him to step back. Instead, he rested his hands on my shoulders. Awkward, not knowing what to _do_ with that, I patted one of them.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said quietly, “since yesterday.”

I swallowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His thumbs rubbed circles on the big muscle connecting my shoulder to my neck.

“W-what were you thinking?”

“How good you looked in that hallway,” he said. “Half-naked, covered in bruises, not giving up.” His lips ghosted across my hair. “Stubbornness is a...weakness of mine.”

I didn’t know what to say. I stayed silent.

He dropped his hands, and the heat of his body vanished. “Sorry,” he said. “That was too much.”

“No,” I protested, turning to look at him.

He shook his head and smiled unconvincingly. “I don’t want to keep you,” he said, awkwardly covering the bulge in his pants. “I’ll, uh, reschedule you. And everyone else.”

He turned to go back to his seat.

I had a choice to make. I could walk, act like this had never happened. Brad was a good guy, he wouldn’t bring it up again unless I did.

Or I could see where this would go.

I shut the door. I heard Brad heave a sigh.

Then I engaged the lock and turned to face him.

He looked stunned. “What-” he stammered.

“I thought about you, too,” I admitted. “All weekend long.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said, walking over until I could sit on a rolling chair across the table from him. “You looked good in that hallway, too, bloody and refusing to leave.”

“What a pair we make,” Brad said, grinning like a goof.

“This’ll never work.”

“Not with that attitude.”

“We’ll push each other until we break,” I said. “This can’t be anything serious.”

“No?”

“A bit of fun,” I said. “A fling. That’s all I have in me by now anyway.”

“Nothing serious?”

“Nothing serious.”

“As long as we’re clear,” he said, and then he leaned forward and kissed me.

It wasn’t soft, or gentle, or sweet. There was a reason our minds had been filled with each other bruised and bloody and determined, and it wasn’t because we were a couple of romantics. We were broken people who worked in a pressure cooker, and this was our release valve.

The kiss was harsh and demanding. By the time I broke away, my lips were swollen, and I could feel heat pooling in my abdomen. Brad looked like he felt much the same.

I pushed the wheeled table to the side and moved forward. Brad crushed me against him with one hand while the other groped my ass. He kissed me just as hard as he had before, though he had to bend awkwardly to manage it.

My hands ran up and down his body, rucking his shirt out of his waistband and pulling his hips to grind against mine. I could feel how hard he was even through our various layers of clothing.

He let go of my back in favor of reaching up under my shirt. I returned the favor, pushing his polo up until we had to break apart so we could take each others’ shirts off.

Brad stripped off the undershirt he was still wearing with brisk efficiency. He was much less scrawny than I’d thought he’d be, with enough muscle definition to almost explain the noticeable lack of body fat. His hipbones jutted out sharply.

I was suddenly aware of just how much extra weight I was carrying around. My hipbones were hidden in the fat of my hips, the spaces between my ribs barely a hint of shadow. Brad was smooth planes and lean muscle - I was curves and fat, all the way down.

Brad didn’t seem to care. His hands moved to the fly of my jeans, and after a bare second of hesitation, I helped him undo the button. His khakis were next; they fell down as soon as his fly was open and his button undone. I had to push on the waistband to make my own jeans hit the floor.

He pulled my bra up and over my head, letting my breasts hang free. He immediately started playing with them, rubbing his thumbs over the nipples and digging his fingers into them.

We each had our fair share of bruises, scrapes, scabs, and scars. Brad had faint lines marked across his hipbones I pretended not to notice. He would probably do the same if - when - he found the ones on my thighs. There were fading bruises, mostly on his forearms and his legs. My bruises were concentrated on my upper arms and belly. Both of us had claw marks across our chests and abdomens. One of my hands bore scars from a client’s fingernails - Liam’s fingernails, in fact.

One of Brad’s hands dropped down to my panties. He looked down into my face, his fingers toying idly with the waistband, and said, “Yes?”

“Yes,” I said, and he pushed his hand beneath the fabric. I spread my legs and shoved his boxers down his legs.

His dick hung, hard and heavy, between his legs. I hadn’t had much experience, but I was fairly confident that this would be big to everyone but a porn star. It was dark red, almost purple, and uncut.

He made a noise when I touched him with a finger, and let go of my chest to shove my panties down my legs. His hands wrapped around to grab my ass, and he crushed me against him again. This time there was nothing to prevent us from feeling the other.

He rubbed against me a few times, kneading my ass, and then he let go. He grabbed a cleared-off table and shoved at me until I got the message and sat on it. He knelt between my legs, spread my thighs gently over his shoulders, and ran his tongue from the very bottom of my labia all the way up to my clit.

I shuddered. He went the other way, clit to almost-perineum, and then seemed to really get into it. He wiggled and writhed his tongue against me, and one of my hands shot down to grip his hair.

He didn’t seem to mind. He kept working me, finding the spots that felt so exquisitely wonderful I had to bite down on moans. His tongue was very skilled at this, and I was reaping the benefits of that. The hand that wasn’t in his hair came up to press against my breast and play with my nipple as he circled around my clit.

I gasped and dug my fingers tighter in his hair as he slid a finger inside my dripping pussy. My hips moved with a mind of their own as he stroked against my insides, finding the spots that had me seeing stars.

Another finger found its way inside. I was almost humping his face, now, breathing harshly as I rode his fingers and his talented tongue. He slipped another finger inside and I threw my head back, gasping wordlessly at the ceiling as pleasure coiled low in my belly, a snake getting ready to strike.

My breath caught in my throat. My hips stuttered against the table. My legs contracted against his back, and my hand clenched against his hair. I let out a long exhale as it hit.

It wasn’t the best orgasm I’d ever had. It was just barely enough to take the edge off my arousal, to let me think clearly again. I let go of Brad’s hair and realized I’d pulled some of the strands out.

“Sorry,” I said.

He kissed the inside of each thigh before he said, "I'm not,” and stood. He grabbed me by my arms and pulled me off the table, then shoved me down to my knees.

Only a fool wouldn’t have known that he was asking me to return the favor and suck him off. I had never seen a dick this big outside of porn - I guessed it was about seven inches, give or take, and far thicker than the vibrator I had at home. It was intimidating.

Still, though. Fair was fair. I leaned forward and ran my tongue from the tip to the base, then paused and looked up to meet his eyes. His cock was lying across my nose and eyes, and it was a picture straight out of a porno. Brad's tongue darted out to wet his lips.

I returned my attention to the task at hand and ran my tongue back to the tip, then spread my lips to take the head into my mouth. I sucked gently at it and started bobbing my head back and forth.

My technique wasn’t great, and I knew it. I hadn’t had much practice, and none of it had been on a real cock. Everything I knew came from porn and a dildo.

Brad’s hips jerked forward. I wasn’t ready for that and I backed off, coughing.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s fine,” I said, and took him into my mouth again.

I managed to get about half of it into my mouth before I realized I wasn’t going to be able to take all of it. I stroked the part I couldn’t reach with my hands while I bobbed on what I could.

Brad gripped my head, holding me still, and I froze. He started pushing forward slowly, then pulling back. By the third time, I realized what he was doing - he was trying to get farther inside.

For the moment, I was okay with that. He kept pushing in and pulling out, slowly going both deeper and faster. The first time I gagged, he stopped, holding himself there while my body spasmed and tried to kick him out.

There was something thrilling about not being able to move while this was happening, to be forced to sit there and take it. The gagging was unpleasant, but there was still a frisson of arousal running around my belly as it happened.

He pulled out only after I managed to force the reflex back. He came right back in, shoving a little deeper. I didn’t gag quite as much this time - I’d been expecting it, and could suppress the reflex to a certain extent.

Again and again he did this. I could feel tears leaking from my eyes and mixing with the drool starting to run down my face as he held me in place and pushed himself down my throat. After what felt like eternity, his balls touched my chin. My eyes met his.

“You did it,” he said, with what sounded like pride. “Now let’s have some real fun, yeah?”

He pulled out slowly, letting me gasp in a breath, and then slammed forward again. His hands kept me in place as he pounded my throat, ignoring my gagging. Tears poured from my eyes in pure reaction.

And, I realized, one of my hands was rubbing my clit. I was enjoying this.

He stopped suddenly and pulled all the way out. I gasped for air.

“I want to fuck you today,” Brad told me. “Yes?”

I nodded frantically.

He found his wallet in his pants pocket. “Bend over the table,” he told me, and pulled a condom from his wallet.

I did as I was told. The air was cold on my slick labia. I heard the foil packet rip open, and after a few moments, Brad’s hands gripped my hips.

“Breathe deep,” Brad told me, and buried himself inside me.

I bit my arm to keep from screaming. He felt huge, like he was ripping me in half. Tears poured down my face.

One of his hands left my hips to rub against my clit. He stayed there, fully inside me and rubbing, until the pain subsided and arousal started to return.

“Better?” he asked me.

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

He pulled out and thrust back in, slowly, testing to see if I was lying. When he was satisfied I wasn’t, one of his hands wrapped around the braid he’d put in my hair earlier and pulled, arching my head back until I was standing up and we were looking at each other’s faces while he thrust into me. He was so much taller that he had to kneel a little bit to be able to pull out.

He let go of the braid and snaked around to grab my breast instead. His other hand was still on my clit. The hard thrusts added another dimension to sensation, a dimension I hadn’t even known was missing.

I grabbed the breast he didn’t have, kneading it and squeezing the nipple just how I liked. He rested his chin on top of my head.

I felt another orgasm coming. “Brad,” I gasped, “I’m gonna-”

“Me too,” he said, his voice tight. He pressed me forward until I was bent over the table again, one hand on my shoulder to hold me steady and the other working my clit with devastating precision as he thrust into me even harder.

I came first, my whole body tensing up and then relaxing as pure physical pleasure overtook me. Brad took another dozen thrusts before he collapsed against my back, breathing hard.

I wanted nothing more than to bask in the afterglow, but I caught sight of the clock on the wall and blurted, “Shit!”

“What?” Brad mumbled against my scalp.

“It’s already two!”

“Shit,” Brad echoed.

We cleaned up and dressed quickly. I hesitated when we were getting ready to leave, then awkwardly hugged him. “Nothing serious.”

“Nope,” he agreed. “But if you ever want to do this again….”

“I’ll let you know,” I promised. “You?”

“Same.”

He smiled down at me. We left the room to start another day.


End file.
